


Tell Me Now (What You See)

by CyberQueens



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 16:21:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7852381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CyberQueens/pseuds/CyberQueens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Role Reversal AU. In which Guinevere is the princess, Morgana is her maid, Merlin is the king's ward, and Arthur just wants to be a knight. Which is why, naturally, fate decides he should be a servant instead.</p>
<p>Written for <a href="http://roundtablemanagers.tumblr.com">roundtablemanagers'</a> Round Table Minutes August 2016 prompt 'Alternate Universes'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Me Now (What You See)

**Author's Note:**

> I can't title for shit.

Sometimes he wondered if God had put him on this Earth just so he could laugh at his misery.

To make him a blacksmith’s son when all he ever dreamed of was knighthood, make his mother the perfect woman then have him be the thing that killed her, saddle him with an insufferable girl as family when he only wanted to be left alone – let him bravely save the king’s ward for all to see when all he’d wanted was to just steal a chicken leg and a gulp of good wine.

And just to laugh at him some more, God had evidently struck King Tom with great desire to repay this act of bravery, deliver a strong clap to his back, and fatefully say, as if it were the prize of a lifetime, “You shall be Lord Merlin’s manservant.”

And now Merlin, that – – highly esteemed ward of the king’s, was telling him there was no way to get out of it.

“What do you mean there’s no way to get out of it?” Arthur let out.

“That’s no way to speak to your master,” Merlin said, grinning all the while.

If Merlin were a _normal_ friend, he’d be chasing him with a blade right about now. Instead, he had to try and plead, “Can’t you talk to him? Tell him what a terrible idea it is? And besides, you can’t possibly want this either.”

“I don’t know.” Merlin shrugged. “Might be fun.”

_Fun? FUN?_ “I don’t know how to be a manservant!”

“It’s a learned skill, I’m sure.” There, he smirked – smirked! “And I’m sure you could ask Morgana to teach you how to fold a sheet.”

“I know how to fold a sheet,” Arthur argued nonsensically.

“Well, there you go then.”

“Mer – my lord,” he said tightly. “I am not a _servant,_ I am a blacksmith.”

“You say that like one of them’s beneath you.”

Exasperated, Arthur threw his arms out. “It is!”

“You think the job my father has given you is beneath you?”

_Ah, hell._

Arthur turned – and, of course, there she was, hands folded delicately in front of her, just beyond the steps of the palace.

He swallowed, back bowing almost as an instinct. “My lady.”

Behind him, Merlin muffled a snicker. He’d probably _staged_ this to happen in the courtyard, the weasel, just so he could watch him get reprimanded by the princess.

She inclined her head, just a fraction, then asked, “So?”

_So – so –_   “All I meant, my lady, is that I am not fit to serve Merlin this way,” he backtracked. “I do not have the skills, and I fear he will grow disappointed with my service.”

“That’s not how I heard it,” Merlin said.

He was going to put poison in his wine. He swore it.

“I assure you,” Arthur went on, “I meant no disrespect to the king.”

Behind the princess, Morgana raised an eyebrow at him, a little twitch at the corner of her mouth. Even she, the traitor, was enjoying this.

They’d grown up together. Practically brother and sister. He’d taught her how to swordfight. His father had _raised_ her, for heaven’s sake. But evidently, that meant nothing to her.

“No, only those who work hard to serve him,” the princess returned primly, chin raised. “A servant’s work is no less honorable than that of a blacksmith.”

Always with the great wise pretty words of respect and equality. She was so well-loved for it, too.

And if they were all equals, Arthur always wanted to ask, then how come he could never even _hope_ for a chance to prove his worth as a knight?

“You are right, of course, my lady,” he made himself say it. “I apologize.”

She nodded, as if accepting it, and continued with her walk.

Trailing behind her, Morgana threw a glance over her shoulder at him, smirking.

Arthur closed his eyes, prayed for strength and patience, and finally resigned himself to his fate.

“So, my lord – ” he turned back to Merlin – “when do I start?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Merlin said.

Arthur gave his widest, fakest smile. “Brilliant.”

“Oh, come on, it won’t be that horrid,” Merlin offered, and seemed to feel just a little bad about all this for the first time. “You know I think of you as friend. I won’t mistreat you.”

Arthur deflated. “I do know that.”

If anything, Merlin’s reputation as a kind soul preceded him. He was an oddity among the nobles, completely sincere in his compassion, and if only for that, Arthur accepted it when he called him his friend. His father always said he was a fool for thinking it, that Merlin was still irrevocably of noble birth, and he, still irrevocably a commoner. And sometimes, Arthur did believe him.

“Besides, Morgana’s happy at her job,” Merlin went on, glancing to the girl in question (Arthur had long suspected that he secretly fancied her), “and I like to think that I’m at least as good an employer as Princess Guinevere.”

Now, Arthur glanced over, too – to the princess, kindly smiling and nodding to all who bowed in her path.

Morgana did always sing her praises, saying there was none in the kingdom with such a big heart, that she was fortunate to have gotten a job in her service rather than another lady’s. _She gives me hope for Camelot,_ Morgana would say. _When she is queen, things will be different._

Arthur didn’t know if he believed that. But he could not deny her grace or elegance – or her beauty, for that matter. There probably wasn’t a man in the land who would not sell his soul for her hand in marriage.

Arthur would sell his for a sword and a knight’s cloak.

“You’ll see,” Merlin finally said, grinning again. “It’ll be great.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was terrible.

His muscles ached from standing still so long, his arms cramped from holding up the jug, and he could not, for the life of him, figure out the time to start refilling the goblets. If not for Morgana nudging him every now and again, he’d have probably left them all to die of thirst.

_‘You’ve got the easiest part of the job,’_ she had hissed at him when he proved incompetent at the very first royal breakfast he served. She had taken everything else upon herself; laying out the food, serving it, handing out -and retrieving plates, taking care of spills. All he had to do was refill goblets. And he couldn’t even work out how to do that.

Still, Merlin smiled encouragingly at him every time he poured for him – even the princess nodded politely when he would come round to her, though he suspected it was only out of habit. The king mostly just ignored him.

“The sorceress was traced to a druid camp beyond the northern borders,” he was saying now. “I shall send knights at first light.”

“I don’t want any retribution,” Merlin spoke quickly, and Arthur withheld a sigh.

King Tom was known for fairness and mercy in all things – except when it came to sorcery. Sometimes, Arthur thought he was too hard. Other times, like when a sorceress almost killed his friend, he thought he was completely in the right.

But Merlin was always one for leniency, never once in favor of shedding the blood of those with magic.

He was a lot like Morgana that way.

Even if he had been in Tom’s care since the time of the Great War when he was a child, taken in when his father betrayed the king and revealed himself to be a sorcerer – even if he himself did not have magic, Arthur suspected that a sense of it would always remain in Merlin, making him loath to strike against those who practiced it. Or maybe it was just his compassionate nature.

 “They tried to take your life, right in the very heart of Camelot,” the king remained firm. “It cannot go unpunished.”

“It was only the sorceress, we can’t be sure anyone she associated with knew of it,” Merlin argued. “Besides,” he added quietly, “she said it was revenge for the death of her son. Surely, if she acted this way, it is because she was overtaken by grief.”

“Surely,” Tom allowed. “But I think of you as my son, too.”

Such a high compliment, and yet the room seemed to fill with tension, pulsing with the unspoken – or the absent, really.

Prince Elyan’s name was not spoken often in Camelot, not since he’d left a year ago. Rumor was then, and sometimes still now, that he had chosen to run off because he could not bear, did not want, to be heir to the throne. And so, the responsibility had fallen to his sister.

Arthur watched her for a moment, filled with sudden sympathy. It had to be heartbreaking, to be away from her brother, to not even know where he was; if she would ever lay eyes on him again. He would certainly hate it to never see Morgana again. However insufferable she was.

“And I of you as my father,” Merlin spoke, and the tension passed. “Which is why I ask you not to do this. Don’t seek revenge the way she did.”

The king seemed mollified.

Then the princess – in what Arthur thought to be, in hindsight, a stroke of strategic brilliance – piped in. “Merlin’s right,” she said. “Show yourself to be above such things. You are the king of Camelot, Father. It is beneath you to answer such an obvious taunt. Besides,” she added, “this camp is over the border into Essetir, and our treaty with Cenred no longer holds. If you send knights there, you could give him cause for war.”

That did the trick.

Arthur marveled at the way the king’s expression cleared, his mouth curving into a smile.

“You are both right, of course,” he declared, laying out his hands on the table so that each of his ‘children’ could take one to hold. “I thought with my heart and not my head. But I am fortunate to have the both of you to make me see the errors of my judgement.”

Both Merlin and the princess smiled, nodding.

When the king went back to his food, Merlin looked across the table to the princess, and mouthed, _“Thank you.”_

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Being in Merlin’s service for a week, Arthur had learned two things.

One – being Merlin’s servant was an endless cycle of one untidy person cleaning up after another untidy person, which resulted in a rather constant state of untidiness, which Morgana would often have to come and rectify herself.

And two – Merlin had hidden mysteries to him. He would go off and disappear for hours, and when Arthur asked where he went to for so long or why, he would only smile beatifically and say, _‘I like going on walks’._ He had two cupboards that didn’t open, too, and when Arthur asked about that, Merlin would wave a hand and say, _‘Don’t bother with those. They haven’t opened in years.’_

 Arthur didn’t believe either for a second. But to each man his own quirks, he supposed.

At the beginning of his second week, Arthur learned a third thing – Merlin was quite possibly mad.

“Pack us some supplies for a journey, will you?” he had requested.

“And where are we off to?”

“Er – a hunt?”

Merlin didn’t hunt. Couldn’t even hold a crossbow without injuring himself and everyone around him.

“Alright,” Arthur had allowed. “And where are we _actually_ going?”

“To the druid camp over the northern borders.”

It was at that precise moment that Arthur began to suspect madness.

“You want to go to the druid camp?” he let out.

Merlin shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Wha – _why?_ ”

“One of theirs tried to kill me,” Merlin said. “I’d like to have a reason.”

“I think the reason’s pretty clear, and you said it yourself,” Arthur argued pointedly. “The sorceress wanted revenge for her son, and you’re the closest thing the king has to one now.”

Merlin shifted from one foot to the other. “I’d still like to hear what they have to say.”

Arthur sighed. “Do you really think it’s a good idea,” he tried to reason, “to go to the people who are probably planning your assassination?”

“Well, that’s why I’ve got you.”

Arthur blinked. “Huh?”

“You’re handy with a sword, aren’t you?” Merlin said. “If someone tries to kill me, you can protect me.”

Against his better judgement, Arthur found his resolve weakening.

He made one last attempt to save both their skins. “If we’re caught and the king finds out, we’ll both pay dearly.”

Merlin grinned. “Best not to get caught then.”

Arthur sighed.

“And where exactly is this camp?”

“Just over the border,” Merlin said. “It is a place called Ealdor.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“You know, I keep wondering – how do you know when a rabbit’s done cooking?”

“Hush.”

“It’s just, there’s got to be a way, right, before it gets all burnt like this – ”

“ _Shh._ ”

“Or is it that there’s just a specific time that you’ve got to leave it on the fire for – ”

“ _Merlin,_ ” Arthur hissed, “stop talking.”

He did, turning wide eyes on him.

Arthur jerked his head, tightening the grip on his sword. “I heard something.”

Merlin’s mouth opened in a silent, _“Oh.”_

Gesturing for him to get back, Arthur tiptoed through the trees, leaning against one of the trunks. He counted to three and jumped out, swinging the sword, only to come across –

“Morgana!”

She lowered her own blade. “Arthur.”

“Wha – what are you – ”

“Gwen?”

Merlin’s voice drew him to the second figure emerging from behind a different tree. As if it weren’t already bad enough that he was helping Merlin risk his life in the stupidest way, now the princess was here to witness it, too.

“What are you doing here?” Merlin asked.

“I think the better question is,” the princess said, dressed in her finest travelling clothes, “what are _you_ doing here?”

Cleverly, Merlin said, “Umm…”

“Hunting, are we, my lord?” Morgana joined in, sheathing her sword.

Even in the darkness, Arthur swore he saw Merlin blush – and then he turned to him sharply, accusing, “You told _Morgana_ we were going on a hunt?”

“What, it – it’s what you told the king!”

“Yes, the _king_ , not _Morgana!_ ”

Arthur frowned. “Because Morgana knows you better than the king?”

“I do,” the princess spoke, her eyes softening. “Merlin, what are you up to?”

Merlin didn’t quite meet her eyes, disturbing the dirt this way and that with the tip of his boot. “It’s just a…personal…thing,” he mumbled.

“Too personal for _me_ to know?”

She sounded so wounded saying it, that even Arthur found himself almost confessing to everything on the spot. Poor Merlin never even stood a chance.

“It’s not like that,” he assured quickly. “It’s just that…I wouldn’t want you to have to keep _this_ from your father. I know you hate lying to him.”

With a heavy frown, the princess said, “You’re going to the druid camp, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Merlin admitted.

She huffed. “What reason could you _possibly_ have for it?”

“I just…want to know why that sorceress wanted me dead.”

“You _know_ why.”

“Still, I – I want to have a…better reason.”

“You risk your life for nothing,” she argued. “ _And_ that of your servant.”

Arthur baulked at being called that – then realized it was exactly what he was. “Thanks,” he muttered; she paid him no mind.

Merlin did glance to him, though, a furrow in his brow. “I’m sorry,” he said, repentantly.

It was those big eyes and ears, Arthur decided, that made it impossible to ever be cross with or say no to Merlin. Hurting his feelings was like kicking a pup.

“Don’t worry about it,” Arthur told him.

The princess sighed. “Why is this so important to you?” she demanded – not even in anger or reprimand, only with the air of a girl just wanting a good reason to finally stop kicking the pup.

To Arthur’s eternal horror, Merlin’s eyes filled with tears. “She – ” His voice wavered. “She said she knew my father.”

In the silence it brought on, the dead burnt rabbit probably showed more life than anyone of them.

The princess recovered first. “Balinor?” she whispered the name, as if afraid the trees themselves would hear her speak the forbidden.

Merlin gulped, and nodded.

“That’s what she said to you?” Arthur let out. He knew she’d spoken to Merlin before trying to kill him. But that he would lie about what she’d said – “It was never about revenge for her son, was it?”

“It was,” Merlin said. “I just don’t think it was against _Tom._ ”

Arthur swallowed.

“Balinor’s not been heard of in twenty years,” the princess spoke again, voice unsteady. “He’s probably dead.”

“Maybe,” Merlin allowed. “But…if this woman knew him, if he – if he hurt her son, then maybe – maybe he’s still alive. Or was. And maybe…those in that camp know about it.”

“Why would you want to know?” she asked, now exasperated. “If he’s _murdered_ someone, why would you want to find him?”

“I have to,” Merlin said desperately, like it was torn right out of him – and Arthur knew, right then and there, that he would follow him into this madness no matter what. “He’s my father, I – I remember nothing of him. I – if someone knows something, I have to find them, Gwen. _Please._ ”

And right then and there, he knew Guinevere would, too.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Might I join you?”

Well, there went his last moments of peace on this Earth. Even the gods of the old ways knew he was sure to never get another one. He’d probably somehow end up getting blamed for all of this when it ended in tragedy and death, too. The king certainly wasn’t going to flog then hang his pup of a ward or his beloved daughter when they made a mess and started a war. Really, when they got to this camp, he ought to just – keep on walking right into Essetir. Some charitable goat herder would probably take him in.

Still, when the princess asked, he could only say, “Of course, my lady.”

She gave him a smile as she settled on the log besides him, then eyed his food with a little tick of her chin and a rub of her lips.

And there went his last meal on Earth, too.

Arthur gave a stiff smile, holding out the bowl. “Are you hungry? Here.”

“Oh, no.” She shook her head. “I can’t take all of your food from you.”

“It’s fine, my lady,” Arthur tried to make it seem like he wasn’t speaking through gritted teeth. “Just take it.”

“You know what, we’ll split it,” she proposed, smiling again.

Arthur blinked. “Um, alright.”

He went to fetch a second bowl, then let the princess pick out the slices she wanted herself. In true spirit of equality, she did leave the same number in his. She did also, however, keep all the least burnt bits for herself.

Sinking his teeth into the charred rabbit she’d left him with, Arthur hoped she had no desire to strike conversation. No such luck.

“I think it’s really sweet what you’re doing for Merlin,” she said. “He’s lucky to have you.”

Surprised, Arthur turned to look at her – and whatever he’d meant to say promptly slipped from his mind. He didn’t think he’d ever been this close to her, that he could look directly into her eyes like this – very beautiful they were, too, catching the light from the dying fire.

He quickly looked away again – to Merlin, huddled under a blanket across the camp they’d made, mouth hanging open in his sleep. “He’s my friend.”

“I know he thinks the same of you.”

He chanced another glance at her – sitting as regally on a rotten log as she would on a throne, smiling sweetly at him.

Alright, so maybe all the men in the land weren’t completely mad for wanting to marry her.

He cleared his throat. “That’s kind of you to say.”

She nodded, reaching for a slice of meat. Though she chewed in silence, her expression betrayed all her thoughts on his cooking skills.

Arthur pursed his lips. “Perhaps you should have packed some supplies for yourself. Then maybe the food would’ve been more to your liking,” he commented, impulsively, and regretted it the next instant.

But, perhaps by one lone, small divine mercy, she seemed to have missed the undercurrent in his tone and thought he’d only spoken out of concern for her delicate stomach.

“This is fine,” she assured. “And we left in a hurry.”

Her eyes turned to Morgana, and Arthur’s followed. She slept soundly, too, propped against the bark of a tree; Arthur had forfeited his only blanket for her use. It was a minor miracle that she slept so soundly, when most nights he heard her wake up screaming from her nightmares. On the nights he didn’t hear it, he wondered if she actually slept at all.

“You shouldn’t have left at all,” he said. “The king might not worry that Merlin’s gone, but _your_ absence will surely be noted.”

Her answer was long to come, and he wondered if he’d finally gone too far.

But, eventually, she said, “He won’t. I’ve told him that I’ve taken some time to myself and retired to my chambers for a few days. He won’t suspect anything.”

Arthur spun to her, realization dawning. She was sometimes in the habit of closing herself away in her chambers – which he knew, because Morgana always stayed with her, claiming the princess needed such respites and saying something about ‘ladies’ things’.

Now, he wondered what they _actually_ got up to during those times.

The princess bit her lip at the sight of his gaping mouth. “I actually thought Morgana might have told you – you know, that she doesn’t _really_ lock herself away with me in my chambers once a month. I know she thinks of you as her brother.”

Arthur huffed. “Yes, well, that may be so, but she never actually tells me anything.”

She gave a little hum and looked down, a sad sort of smile at the corner of her mouth.

Probably thinking about _her_ brother, Arthur decided.

“Well, um…” He ran a hand over the back of his neck. “ _I_ know that, uh, Merlin thinks of _you_ as a sister. He’s probably secretly glad that you’re here, actually.”

Her smile widened for a moment, only to be replaced by a frown when she looked to Merlin again. “Do you think it’s true?” she asked, voice hushed. “That Balinor’s still alive?”

“Perhaps,” Arthur allowed.

She only sighed.

It could be a dangerous thing, Arthur supposed, if Balinor did indeed live. Questions about Merlin’s allegiances might arise. Or worse, he might strike against Camelot again. And then, where would _that_ leave Merlin?

He had no doubts about where his friend’s loyalties were, but – well, Morgana still carried her father with her, in so many words accusing _his_ of having caused his death then raised her out of guilt, in her fits of anger. Blood didn’t just fade with time.

The princess sighed again. “I shouldn’t bother you with these things,” she said. “You’re only here to help a friend.”

“Yes, but I’m not a fool,” Arthur let out. “I know who he was.”

With wide eyes, the princess turned to him, blinking.

He really should just stop talking.

“I wasn’t calling you a fool.”

“I know that,” he muttered.

“I just didn’t think you’d care for the politics behind this,” she said; Arthur bristled.

“You assume, just because I’m a commoner, that I don’t think about these things?”

The princess shifted, eyes narrowed and mouth opening as if to argue. Her lips pressed together with a little sound at the back of her throat, like she was literally strangling the words; the next moment, her expression cleared and she settled back down. “Well, what _do_ you think?” she asked, and it threw him off completely.

Was she – actually asking him to – talk? About his opinions? Where she could _hear_ them?

He didn’t lack for those, of course, but faced him with her now, looking to him expectantly, all he managed was an inelegant string of _um’s_ and _uh’s._

She raised an eyebrow.

Arthur decidedly looked down to his bowl. “I think – ” He cleared his throat. “I think that a man can’t be blamed for his father’s sins.”

“No one blames Merlin for what his father has done.”

“But he _is_ still Balinor’s son,” Arthur said quietly. “He cannot change what he was born into.” Barely above a whisper, he added, “No one in this kingdom ever can.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Our birth defines us,” he said. “We can never hope to become anything else.”

“We all have our place.”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

She gave an indignant huff. “Everyone has their duty,” she said. “One is no less valuable than the other, but it doesn’t change the fact that it is so. I can no more hope to be a maid than a blacksmith can hope to be – ”

“A knight?” Arthur muttered.

He dared meet her eyes again. She was watching him intently, though it revealed nothing of what she thought. Eventually, she only said, “Yes.”

He should just nod and let it be. Whatever he said wouldn’t change a thing, except maybe expedite the moment of his death. _Let it be,_ he told himself, even as he declared, “I don’t believe that.”

Few things in his life had ever taken more courage than to hold her gaze in the silence that followed.

After an eternity, she asked, “You believe you could be a knight?”

_Yes._ “Perhaps,” he said. “How can I know if I never have the chance to prove it? Who’s to say,” he challenged, “that only those of noble birth have what it takes to be a knight? Or to offer wise council, or – be learned enough to cure an illness?”

He thought of Gaius, old and surrounded by his experiments and with barely enough coin to feed himself, curing every ill of the lower town when the court physician had already passed a verdict of death; of Morgana, scrubbing pots day and night when she could write letters that would impress kings and read books that would confuse men of science – and of himself, always of himself, with the courage and skill to be a knight, and only ever getting to sharpen their swords.

“If the son of a sorcerer can be the most loyal of the king’s subjects,” he said, “then why can’t _I_ ever be anything more than _my_ father’s son?”

Something changed in the way she looked at him, a softness that hadn’t been there before. The flutter of her eyelashes cast shadows across her cheeks as her mouth pulled into a slow smile. And when exactly had he leaned in close enough that he could count the freckles on her nose?

“That’s a brave way of thinking,” she said softly, and her breath ghosted over his cheek.

“Brave enough to make me fit for knighthood?” he asked, just as softly.

Her eyelashes fluttered again. “There’s more to being a knight than just bravery.”

“I’m chivalrous.”

What on earth was he doing?

“So is Merlin,” Guinevere said. “Doesn’t mean he could ever be a knight.”

“That’s because he can’t swing a sword to save his life,” Arthur said. “I can.”

“Mm,” she hummed. “Morgana did say she’s taught you everything she knows.”

“That’s a lie,” Arthur protested. “I taught _her_ everything _she_ knows.”

“ _Arrogance_ does not befit a knight.”

He smirked. “I’ve never met a knight who _wasn’t_ arrogant.”

“You mistake _pride_ for arrogance.”

“Aren’t they two sides of the same coin?”

She pursed her lips. “There really are no limits to your wit, are there?” she commented.

He didn’t miss a beat. “None that I have ever found.”

She gave a small, startled laugh. “You’re certainly _bold_ enough to be a knight.”

It sobered him immediately, like the buckets of cold water his father used to wake him with in the mornings. Really, what _was_ he doing?

He leaned away, muttering excuses, “Forgive me, my lady, I should not have spoken to you this way.” And then he promptly shoved more rabbit into his mouth to keep himself from speaking anything _else._

Her reply wasn’t quick to come, but when it did, there was no reprimand in it. “It’s alright,” she said. “You’re honest. I appreciate that.”

He chanced a glance at her from the corner of his eye.

“Being the princess, I often wonder if anyone ever tells me what they really think.” She gave a small, delicate shrug. “At least with you, I don’t have to worry about that.”

Why did that make him blush?

“Does it not make for a more unburdened life to not always hear the truth of everything?” he asked quietly. He would certainly prefer if his father could sometimes keep his thoughts on his shortcomings to himself and just _lie._ “A happier one, perhaps.”

“That might suit some,” she said, “but I have a higher responsibility than most.” She raised her chin, as if the crown were on her head at this very moment; Arthur didn’t think she was even aware of doing it.

“One day, I will be queen of Camelot,” she went on, “and I will have a duty to my people. If no one tells me the truth, then how can I know what I should and should not do for them? What pleases and what upsets them?” She smiled faintly. “How to make them happy?”

For the first time, Arthur thought he could see exactly what Morgana saw in her, too.

“I think you will make a wonderful queen, my lady,” he whispered.

Her eyes lit up at hearing it, her smile widening. She looked so innocent in that moment, just enjoying a simple compliment.

She _was_ beautiful.

“And perhaps,” he gathered the courage add, barely any louder, “when you are…things will be different.”

He held her gaze in the silence that followed. She’d understood his meaning perfectly, the hope he’d dared express, he could see it in her eyes.

In the end, she only said, “Perhaps.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

In many ways, reaching their destination was anticlimactic. If he were truly a knight and this were a quest, he’d be wallowing in disappointment right about now.

The druid camp was a desolate, barren space, not a tent – or a druid – in sight.

“They’re gone,” Guinevere had said, the rest of it remaining unspoken. _They fled fearing the king’s reprisal._

Merlin took it hard. Arthur had seen the hope die in his eyes, his shoulders slump with it – a sight that really had no business being so heartbreaking.

Arthur had offered him a pat on the arm and Guinevere had consoled him, though when she met his eyes over Merlin’s shoulder, it was clear to him that she was as secretly relieved as he was.

It was Morgana who showed the most sympathy, kindly offering to take Merlin searching around the camp site, and see if there was anything at all they might have left behind.

“Perhaps it’s for the better that he never finds Balinor,” Arthur said when it was just him and Guinevere left.

“Yes,” she agreed, though her expression was troubled.

He understood perfectly. “A broken heart mends,” he offered quietly.

She looked to him, surprise in her eyes, then gave a wan smile. “I know,” she said. “I just…hate seeing him like this.”

She sighed.

“But it is for the best,” she said, her voice tinged with regret. “There can never be…a place in Camelot for the likes of Balinor. Merlin must make peace with that.”

Arthur nodded, though the finality of it made a strange sense of foreboding slither up his spine.

Merlin and Morgana returned from their search empty-handed, and when they all settled in for the night again, Arthur found far fewer opportunities for chatter than the one before. They were all quiet, each lost in their own thoughts. At least Morgana cooked this time.

On their way back, while Guinevere and Morgana had the luxury of continuing on straight to Camelot, Arthur had to stay behind and hunt for the game that Merlin would use to sell his lie to the king, and so inevitably found himself facing off against an angry boar with nothing but his quick reflexes and a dull sword. (“What sort of blacksmith walks around with a dull sword?” Merlin commented, and Arthur seriously considered prospects of Essetir’s goat herders again.)

But the boar was defeated, all of them safely back in Camelot, and the king still blissfully unaware that they had committed what was probably some manner of treason.

In the day that followed, Merlin lacked some of his usual cheer though his sadness did ebb away little by little. Arthur held his tongue when it resurfaced, lest he hurt Merlin’s feelings further, though he always wanted to say that it was for the best, however cruel it might be. It was then that he thought of the princess, how she would agree.

He thought of her a lot, especially when Merlin was less talkative and his chatter didn’t constantly occupy his mind.

The more he thought of her, the more he wondered how he hadn’t seen it before – that there was _something_ about her, something that inspired hope.

She found him alone in Merlin’s chambers just as it neared sundown, while he tried – and mostly failed – to make the bed as neatly and efficiently as Morgana could.

“My lady.” He bowed.

She smiled at him, dressed in yellow and golden jewels in her hair. Arthur thought about the sun in summertime.

“I wanted to thank you,” she said; Arthur blinked at her. “For the loyalty you showed Merlin.”

_Ah._ He shrugged. “It was nothing.”

“Nevertheless, I appreciate your discretion,” she said. “Not just when it comes to Merlin’s affairs, but also mine.”

Now he frowned.

Her smile widened, turning into a grin. “That you haven’t mentioned the truth of my absences to my father,” she clarified.

He couldn’t help but smile, too. And incessantly wonder what it was she actually did.

(Did she and Morgana sneak around town? Drink in the tavern? Go to outlying villages and gamble away the king’s coin? Go on quests?

Did they slay dragons?)

It might be that he was losing his mind, but instead of only accepting the gratitude, he said, “Well, I haven’t _yet._ ”

Her mouth dropped open, and Arthur had to bite back a grin.

“You have a price, don’t you?” she said, eyes narrowing.

He gave a casual shrug.

“Alright, what is it?” she demanded. “Gold? Favor?” She smirked. “A _sharpened_ sword?”

He wasn’t going to lie, Merlin’s betrayal stung (after all the loyalty he had shown _him,_ too) for a moment, though it passed as his heart – inexplicably, senselessly – beat quicker. He could ask something of her.

The fleeting thought of a promise of knighthood went through his mind, but then what came out instead was, “Perhaps you could, um, talk to me about politics again, sometime.”

He spoke it quietly, with a shyness he wasn’t used to; his palms began to sweat.

Guinevere blinked, a soft, _‘oh’_ passing her lips before they turned up into a bright smile. “I’d like that,” she said, entirely genuine.

He grinned, delighted beyond reason. “Thank you,” he said – and why did that come out so breathless?

She chuckled, a little breathless herself, tucking an imaginary strand of hair behind her ear. “Right, well – ” she cleared her throat – “I should, uh, leave to your work now.” Her smile was beautiful as she said, “I will see you later. Goodnight, Arthur.”

“Goodnight, Princess,” he said in return. He just stood there and watched her go – with his heart beating fast and his sweaty palms, and an odd fluttering in his stomach.

Somewhere out there, God was laughing at him harder than ever before.


End file.
